


Quiet Gestures, Silent Conversations

by psychicdreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Family, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreams/pseuds/psychicdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft have their best conversations without words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Gestures, Silent Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly just a Sherlock/Mycroft brother fic, exploring how the two feel despite their interactions. No real shipping of my OTPs of Sherlock, just something that I wanted to write and a short scene that has no story.

All manner of machines beeped in a little orchestra as they were attached to Mycroft Holmes. He looked terrible, more than terrible, with injuries too numerous to count. His pale skin was marred with cuts and abrasions, bruises, and no one had felt more relief than them when they’d been informed, after Sherlock had threatened death if they didn’t test for it, that he had not been sexually assaulted by his captors for his two day abduction. John had shoved a chair right next to the bed and forced Sherlock to sit there, his coat hanging off the back of it. He wore his usual black suit with white shirt with two the top button loose. He was not as calm as he appeared as he spoke.

“Mycroft wasn’t always behind a desk. He was originally an agent, and one that worked entirely alone. He was the best sniper the British government had and they knew that if they wanted a job done, and done right, where to go. He’d done in six months what it took others years to do, and he did it all without complaining. They told him what they needed done, and he’d do what it took to accomplish it.” Sherlock snarled. “He was their tool. They weren’t stupid enough not to realize just how smart Mycroft was and they used that too. They heaped more and more on him that even Mycroft could break under the weight of all he had to do, but he _never bloody complained_.”

“Are you ever going to explain how you knew he’d been kidnapped?”

He tilted his head toward John’s question, who had taken up residence in the other chair. Lestrade was leaning against the wall behind Sherlock. “I realized something was wrong when I didn’t hear from Mycroft, or saw any of his henchmen at the flat. Mycroft his paranoid, he would not have let the security slip. I hacked into his computer to see the CCTV footage. There was a convenient gap in video that my dear annoying brother wouldn’t have allowed. When the feed resumed, I noticed signs of a scuffle on the street. When I went there, I found Mycroft’s umbrella hidden among a pile of garbage cans. He hasn’t gone anywhere without that umbrella since I gave it to him.”

“Wait, you gave him that?”

Sherlock glanced at John and nodded. “When I was seven. Mummy gave me money to buy Mycroft a present of my choosing for his birthday. I gave it to him, but at the time, I thought he’d hate it. I had seen what others gave for birthday presents, but I knew Mycroft didn’t want any of that. He insisted he loved it and to prove it, he went everywhere with it since then.”

“How…sweet.”

He rolled his eyes. “Your sentiment is showing, John.” He tried to ignore John’s sparkling eyes and suddenly regretted ever telling the story because now he was sure his flatmate would be insufferable for awhile, now that he’d ‘proven his familial love’ or some such nonsense.

“So how do you know all this?” Lestrade asked quietly, as if the thought of raising his voice was repugnant. So far, Mycroft hadn’t even moved, unconscious for two days. It wasn’t really surprising to either of the non-Holmes men that Mycroft had his own room. Probably had it on reserve. “That he was a sniper and all that happened.”

Sherlock’s attention was drawn back from the past and he steepled his hands together in front of his lips, looking back at the motionless body on the bed. “It’s always Mycroft being called to me…but there was one time that I was called to him. There’s a reason that they moved him up and won’t let him do fieldwork. His last assignment, he was captured just like now, but he’d fought his way free by himself after being tortured for four days, killing everyone. Naturally his stupid superiors extracted him from there once he called them and brought him back to London. They debriefed him and asked if he was all right. I’m assuming they meant mentally and Mycroft lied beautifully and said that he was fine. They let him go home and not a day later, one of his staff startled him in the morning and he shot her instantly.”

“…Dead?” John asked grimly.

“Yes. There was a commotion from the rest and he shot all his staff because they were _idiots_.” Sherlock seemed intent on making that clear, the anger underlying his tone seeming more of a defense of Mycroft than any other time they had ever heard. “They and everyone else they tried to bring in to calm him down, who was clearly not even realizing where he was in the room or in his head, acted like idiots.”

“In what way?”

“They came in cautiously, like there was a man with a gun in the room, but it only reinforced his delusion that he was still being held captive. It brings up a lot of flashbacks for the person that’s been traumatized and if it’s severe enough, they start to relive the event,” the medic explained to Lestrade softly.

“Like PTSD?”

“A severe case of it, yeah. In Mycroft’s case, his mind settled on ‘fight’ instead of ‘flight’.”

Sherlock nodded and continued. “They were at a loss. Mycroft was their best and this could turn into a disaster. So they called me. I was twenty at the time and they were lucky that that day I wasn’t high or having withdrawals. It was at the very start of my former drug habit.”

“So what happened?” Lestrade asked, eyes glued to the monitors as if he thought Mycroft’s heart might give out. It was not an unfair concern.

_Sherlock approached the study that he knew Mycroft was in. His brother hadn’t barricaded the door, at least. Armed security forces were lining the hallway and around the door like a SWAT team. He groaned, knowing that Mycroft was in an extreme mental state that they were only provoking with their actions. “For god’s sake, don’t go in unless you want to die.”_

_Rather than perpetuate the problem, Sherlock threw open the door and stalked in without a hint of subterfuge before slamming it closed behind him on the idiots that were only causing his brother further harm in their attempts to help. Already he could hear movement, knew what would happen if he didn’t make it clear who he was. With just a quick glance, he could tell where the man was and he made no threatening moves. “ **Mycroft**! Get out from behind the desk!”_

_His strident voice seemed to work because there was a pause. He waited, arms slack at his sides, as Mycroft peered around the corner just slightly. “You’re not in a war zone anymore, Mycroft,” he told him, trying to remember how his brother had always reacted, always cared and talked to him, when he’d needed help. It was so unnerving, being the one that now had to save Mycroft. “Or are you planning on shooting your little brother that you’ve said you’ve sacrificed so much for?”_

_The gun was lowered slowly and Sherlock risked stepping forward just a bit carefully, like Mycroft would when he was high. Wild eyes were watching him, but he was allowed to kneel next to him, reach out and touch the man. “Your superiors were idiots. They just assumed because you said you were fine and you were their best that you were. They treated you like a robot.”_

_He didn’t think any of the words were being registered in Mycroft’s mind, but he could see some sense returning at least. He could feel the shaking underneath his hands and though it was not an action that came easy to him, Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his brother in a hug. For the one and only time, Mycroft broke down and he felt wetness on his jacket when he began to cry._

_“…It’s okay, Mycroft.”_

_“How many did I kill?”_

_The raspy voice surprised him. He hadn’t thought that he would be quite that quick and he had the unique experience to watch as Mycroft put his mask back on piece by piece. It wasn’t perfect and by the fact that he was being **clung** to by someone who was normally so self-sufficient, there was going to be a long, hard road ahead of them. “Seven. Six were staff, the last was an agent.” His blue gray eyes hardened. “It was their own fault that they didn’t realize you were traumatized.”_

_There was a moment of silence before Mycroft stunned him by asking quietly, “…Will you stay, Sherlock? Please?”_

_Somehow seeing his brother, who he had always took for granted at being perfect, like this broke his heart a bit. “Fine.” He shifted to sit down next to them as they rested against the desk, shoulder to shoulder. The phone rang, it was ignored. When Mycroft abruptly reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, holding it tightly, they both pretended it hadn’t happen even as he squeezed back in reassurance, letting the silence do the talking for them._

“Naturally his murdering of seven people was completely hushed up and no charges were held against him. He obviously wasn’t in his right mind.”

“Those arseholes,” Lestrade hissed with unconcealed anger. “They just went on, not wanting to believe—”

“I made them pay properly for it,” Sherlock interrupted with a sense of satisfaction that had never left him.

“What’d you do?”

Finally he turned and looked at John again. “I insisted he have at least three months leave with pay, there would be no more fieldwork, and that he be promoted to a much higher position where he would not be required to do ‘legwork’ as he calls it. I personally picked out his therapist, of which _they_ paid the tab, and, I insisted that they move him from that flat he lived in to a house that he could do with as he pleased. Finally, he has a sizable ‘retirement’ waiting for him that would make royalty blush.” He grinned. “And I punched every one of his direct superiors.”

“I bet that made you popular,” Lestrade said with a grim grin, a look of wolfish delight in his eyes.

“It infuriated them, but when they tried to reprimand me, Mycroft stopped them.”

John chuckled a little. “Why do I have this image in my head of Sherlock as a kid sticking his tongue out at them while leaning around Mycroft standing in front of him with his arms crossed?”

Lestrade let out a bark of laughter as Sherlock frowned a bit, but there was a faint glow of amusement in his eyes. Before the detective could reply, a hoarse voice muttered, “I believe that is an accurate description, Doctor Watson.”

They jumped, John to his feet and approaching the bed. “Mycroft?! How are you feeling?”

The man’s eyes were barely open to slits and he seemed to slur a little despite clearly putting as much effort as he could into enunciating. “Fine.”

“You are not fine. You have—”

“I don’t need a list of my injuries right now, Sherlock. I assume…there were others... that took part in my rescue?”

“Greg and I did, yeah. No injuries,” John explained. “Not even a scratch on Sherlock.”

“How amazing, that a man that has a singular talent of almost killing himself managed to succeed unscathed.”

Sherlock glared fiercely. “If you are merely going to be your insufferable self, I see no point in staying!” He stood up abruptly, only to pause as weak fingers lightly touched the tips of the younger man’s. He froze, looking down for a long moment, before he finally dropped back down in the chair. “John, Lestrade. Leave the room for now.”

To their credit, both of his friends nodded and quietly left the room, closing the door behind them. Having someone else present made it very difficult to do what he was about to: show his love for his brother. Gently he reached out and held Mycroft’s hand softly as he had the last time he had been injured. “You’re not asleep.”

“Astute,” was the whisper.

“Pain?”

“Makes it difficult to sleep, yes.”

Sherlock reached over and upped the morphine level on his brother’s IV without permission despite the weak, grunted protest. “How did they manage to kidnap you? You’re as good as John.”

“What…a compliment, coming from…you.” Those fingers trembled just a little and Sherlock felt two of Mycroft’s press against his wrist. It took less than a second to realize that he was counting his pulse. His fingers mimicked the motion, noting that the beat was not as strong as usual. For all his animosity of his brother and his meddling, he didn’t want Mycroft _dead_ and though he would not admit to anyone, even John, that he’d be crushed if something happened to his brother.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I was distracted. They taunted, said they had killed those I… It was merely momentary, a heartbeat, but it was enough.”

He understood what his brother was saying. The momentary freeze at the thought that those he had come to care for, no matter how much he said he didn’t think it was an advantage to care, would be enough for someone fast enough to take him down. Neither of them had acknowledged it except between themselves, and silently, that their only sphere of weakness had begun to encompass a certain few. John and Lestrade, and even his landlady, were pressure points that both Sherlock and Mycroft would never be able to resist.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught John glancing in through a crack in the door he’d opened before he closed it again. Knowing them, they were acting as sentries outside. He was probably surprised at the silence, but the truth was, Sherlock and Mycroft had their best conversations without words. It was with actions that they showed their feelings, not with their mouths. Finally he asked, almost caustically even as he pressed just a little harder with his two fingers on Mycroft’s pulse, “More therapy?”

“Hardly. I finished with that years ago. One kidnapping will not make me regress.” Almost as if in return for the harder touch, Mycroft struggled with his weak fingers to return it. “I trusted that you would find me. Remind me…later…to thank the good Doctor and Detective Inspector for the help in the rescue. It would not have been easy…to storm that bunker with just three people.”

His eyebrows rose at one particular sentence. Mycroft, trust Sherlock ever again after his drug abuse? “You did?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t before, the first time.”

“Of course…I didn’t. You were a drug addict then.” Talking seemed to strain his brother, but he insisted on speaking anyway. “I didn’t know…until you came after my breakdown…that I could trust you…to help me.”

“You didn’t think I cared if you lived or died,” he translated with a narrowed gaze.

“…Yes.”

It was almost galling, except that Sherlock knew he had not given Mycroft much reason to believe otherwise. “It was one time, Mycroft. It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“Yes it was, Sherlock.”

“How much pain medication have they given you, to make you so honest with your feelings?”

Finally Mycroft smiled, softly, the way he had when they were children and Sherlock had done something that made him happy or proud. The truth was, not that he would ever say it, he had looked up more to Mycroft than he had his father. It was nothing against the poor, dull man, but Mycroft had been the perfect older brother that had had no reason to even like him when he’d been born and yet had seemed instantly overprotective and indulgent. “…Mycroft?” he asked when there was no response. It wasn’t their talkative silences. He peered closer and determined that his brother had fallen back to sleep. He shifted and contemplated getting up, but something kept him still. Well, he supposed it wasn’t hurting anything…

An hour later, John and Lestrade poked their heads in the room at the long stretch of silence. Sherlock had fallen asleep, head resting on the older man’s chest, their fingers still resting against each other’s pulse.


End file.
